


Sore Must Be the Storm

by foxy_mulder



Series: The Thing With Feathers [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Companion Piece, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Families of Choice, Geralt needs love and he GETS it, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Healing from trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxy_mulder/pseuds/foxy_mulder
Summary: After the mountain, Geralt and Jaskier reunite and everything goes back to normal. All is well.But Jaskier is still behaving strangely, and Geralt cannot figure out why.Something is very wrong with Jaskier.___________________________________(Companion to Tunes Without Words, but either can be read alone)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Thing With Feathers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721758
Comments: 308
Kudos: 2738
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute..., The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow remember when that clown said "the Geralt POV will probably be a oneshot"? Its me. I'm the clown

_  
He isn't afraid of the trials._

_He's not a fool, he knows what to expect, knows it will hurt far more than anything he has ever endured. But fear is a luxury he cannot afford- now nor ever- if he is going to survive._

_He pleads at first, pain overtaking his mind with a primal desire for escape as he shakes and sweats, shits himself and vomits and cries as his body tears itself apart, shifting and building new. All he can think of in the all-consuming pain is how to get away. But there is no escaping what is inside him, what he will become if he survives this.  
_

_  
No one pays him any mind, as he screams himself hoarse. He does not blame them. Just as he cannot afford to fear, they cannot afford to be attached to someone so likely to die in agony._

_He will not die. He is not afraid. He will live._

_He repeats these to himself like a mantra, though the words warp, translated through the static in his brain. He concentrates._

_He will not die. He is not afraid. He will live._

_These are his rocks to stand on._

_He will be better than the rest, for if he dies he will have failed at the one thing he is made for- to survive, to fight another day. All his training will have been for nothing.  
_

_  
Something spikes deep, and he lets out a jagged cry as pain like he has never felt bursts through him in red blooms, as his rock falters and cracks._

_He will not die- except that he might._

_He is not afraid- except that he is._

_He is not afraid to die alone-_

_He wants anyone to witness this, to fear with him, for him, but no one does. He casts about wildly for anyone, Vesemir, his mother, for his brothers.  
_

  
_The others will die too, in the same screaming pain, and he mourns them, has mourned them even as they stood alive at his side. Mourned them with his tears at night and his rough grip in the day, knowing what would become of them._  


  
_This will fix all of that. He will be a Witcher, he will have no feelings left to yearn for a hand to grip, a soft word to soothe. He will be strong, when this is over. No longer terrified and close to giving up, no longer hearing his heart pound as the hours drag into days, as the pain goes on, and on, and on-_  


  
_He no longer pleads, for there is no one listening. He will be a Witcher._  


_Whether he is in the company of one man or a crowd of many, he will always be alone. He will be strong, he will need no one. This will fix everything. When he ceases to feel, this will all be easier_.  


  
_He will not die. He is not afraid. He will live. He alone will live._  


_And he knows, when he opens his inhuman yellow eyes, he will carry this lesson the rest of his life_.  


He hadn't thought Jaskier would actually leave. Geralt had known he would be upset; the words were meant to hurt him, an easy target for his anger because Jaskier was _safe._ Jaskier wouldn't leave him, not really. He would be back in just hours, like any time they fought, and would pretend it had never happened. But as hours pass and the sky grows dark on the mountain, Jaskier does not return, and cold dread creeps up in his blood. Something has happened.

He waits at the camp for a day in hopes that he's just wandered off somewhere close to sulk, and will be back. He has to return, of course. His bag, bedroll and lute are only gone because… fuck. 

Guilt floods his stomach, heavy and final. Fuck. He has really fucked this one up. First Yennefer, then Jaskier. 

He packs up camp quickly and goes, because he can't have gone far with no horse, and his constant need for breaks, and his ridiculous outfit, totally impractical for long distance travel. He will find him.

He was being unfair, it was a miserable day, he didn't mean it. Jaskier will understand that without saying, he always understands Geralt's intentions without him needing to say a word. It's one of the reasons they were such good friends. _Were._ He doesn't know if they still are; hes never said anything as cruel to Jaskier as he has today. Truly a new low of ruining everything good, even for him. 

__

If life could give me one blessing-

Fuck. How could he say that to _Jaskier_ , of all people. Under no ordinary circumstances would he ever have said- he teases Jaskier, calls him irritating, but he never aims to hurt him- Jaskier doesn't ever seem to take it personally, except on a few occasions. He never means it. He does love Jaskier, he could never wish him away to any degree of seriousness. 

But this time he went too far and took it out on the one person who least deserved it, the only one who hadn't yet left him. Like an absolute bastard. And then he had foolishly expected he would stick around for more abuse.

Or maybe some part of him had known this would be the last straw for Jaskier. 

What if he doesn't find him? What if he doesn't want to come back? He knows how to live alone. He could do it. He did it before Jaskier, he can do it again.

He has to come back, though. Geralt will just have to apologize, and he will see that he didnt mean it and it will never happen again. 

The copper stench of blood hits him like a wall and he urges Roach into a fast trot, scanning the forest, heart racing. What if he finds Jaskier in a pool of- 

He looks around frantically, for anything, a sign. The smell grows stronger, mixing with the soft butter scent he knows too well, and he sees something red in a clearing ahead.

Jaskiers head turns and he sees him, eyes widening deerlike and wounded. He doesn't look to be dying. Geralt practically sags in relief, breathing Jaskiers name like a prayer, and he dismounts quickly to come to him.

Jaskier is angry, mouth tight when he acknowledges him with a curt snap of his name. He looks like he's been crying. Jaskier never cries. He decides not to mention it, guilt gnawing at him as he flounders for the right words.

"You shouldn't pick at that." 

"What do you want, Geralt? I'm busy." 

"I see.” He doesn't see. "I was on the path and smelled your blood." _On the path looking for you._ Jaskier understands. He always does.

"Well, as you can see, I'm whole. So feel free to go ahead." 

He's still mad. Of course he is. Geralt hates that he's so bad at this. No one has ever needed a direct apology from him and now he owes them to everyone he cares about, and none of the training he's had could have prepared him for this.

"I'm sorry," he tries.

"What?"

"You heard me. Just… here." He's always been better at actions than words. Jaskier does this for him all the time, to the point where he knows the locations of slaves and potions in Geralt's bag better than Geralt does. 

It's better when Jaskier does it. His hands are more nimble, gentler than Geralt is capable of. But it's the least Geralt can do to communicate that he is worried, that he cares and he's sorry and doesn't want to be rid of him at all, even when he's hurting from everything else he wants him to stay. Jaskier needs to be looked after and as high maintenance as he is, Geralt likes doing it. He likes caring for someone else more than he wants to admit. For all Jaskier does for him he needs to show that he is grateful, that he does value him, that he can take care of him. Even if it’s not up to the standards set by his courtly lovers and high-ranking friends, who undoubtedly take better care than Geralt could hope to live up to.

He should know hes more than a scapegoat for Geralt to dump his anger on.

"You don't have to do that, it's really not that serious. I tripped." He wants to do it. He has to. Jaskier looks so upset. "Stop. I can do it."

He snatches the bandage and Geralt watches helplessly as he does it himself, better than Geralt would have. He waits for him to finish, and then he waits by Roach. 

He's not a fool. He can see that Jaskier is livid and doesn't want to see him right now. But he must wait on him just in case. He will wait here until he finds the words.

"What are you waiting on?"

Geralt's jaw clenches. He’s toying with him, trying to goad him into saying things he already knows. "You." 

"Look, if this is about what you said on the mountain, I want you to know it's fine. I completely understand."

Jaskier understands. A weight eases from his heart. He may not be forgiven but Jaskier understands, and it's enough. He can earn forgiveness, and soon enough Jaskier will let him take care of him again.

"So you'll come?"

"I…"

"There's bandits in this area, you shouldn't walk alone here." It’s a flimsy excuse and he knows it. But he can't exactly come out and say ‘I love you,’ or anything so emotionally wanton. As much as Jaskier professes to care for him, he cannot let himself want for such a life, one spent together with someone else, going to the coast or whatever nonsense Jaskier could come up with. Spent with someone who _cares_ about him. He’s a Witcher, he could never tie someone like Jaskier to him, it's cruel.

Bitterly, he thinks of the last time he had tried being tied to someone, and just how that went for everyone involved.

But he can keep Jaskier near, as always. Close, but not close enough to hurt. And he can take care of him, until everything is fine between them again. Geralt is lucky to be blessed with a second chance. He won't waste it.

Things can go back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to Tunes Without Words! 
> 
> if you have suggestions please share (in the comments, or my tumblr @fox-muldest) bc I would LOVE some more ideas for this story or just prompts in general. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

_  
The words flow over him like water, nothing he hasn't heard before. Some true, the insults of how he's a beast in human skin, others blatantly untrue, the ones about his hidden claws and heat vision._

_He wishes he had heat vision. He sips his water and idly hopes they don't decide to spit in it or dump it on his lap._

_He says nothing, knows better than to speak or to defend himself in such a situation. He waits for them to finish. They usually get it out of their systems after awhile and leave him be. But the silence only seems to rile them further- the liquid courage on their breaths taking them to new heights of open hatred._

_Standing abruptly, the movement of his chair startles them and one falls onto the floor with a satisfying smack. He makes his exit to the stables. Here he was been graciously granted a stay at the full price of an inn room. Still, it's nice. Many places refuse to serve him at all, so he is glad to have a roof over his head. Though the hay gives him fleas, it is warm, and he loves the horses._

_A brown one eyes him lazily from the other side of the stall, flicking flies off her rump which then come to land on Geralt._

_He pats her, a warning to show his presence, and she does not startle nor kick at him like most animals._

_He likes her lack of fear. And her lack of respect, as she shits directly on his boots, glancing back with big brown eyes that seem not to see his white hair and his sword and his unnatural scent._

_Moving slowly so as not to startle her, he brings a handful of sugar from his pocket, sugar he has collected for the express purpose of coaxing horses from fear. She nibbles from his hand, warm breath blowing in a moist cloud over his palm. He likes it more than he can say in words. The mutual trust they share in this moment, the warmth of contact and the way she’s allowing him to be gentle with her._

_She sees not a Witcher, but a man like any other that feeds and cleans her. Whether that makes her an especially stupid horse or a smart one he does not know. He does not have words for the feeling. But he likes it. For her, he could be a man, could feed and brush her. She would not know any difference between man and monster. It would be as if they were only a horse and its master._

_He picks up a brush and starts on her mane._

Jaskier is still here and it is that- only that- which gives him a reprieve from the sour taste on his tongue that seems to constantly linger. 

Because he has once again proved himself unfit for company, has once again been left. Even by destiny. Perhaps it is for the best. And yet the thought causes a sinking in him that he cannot shake, that he can be left even by someone who does care for him as Yennefer does. Did. Perhaps she's correct and her love was not her own, but a product of destiny, so he was never loved in the first place. Alone even in company, a fleeting taste of something he cannot keep.

He does not want to be alone, and it is a near startling thought, one that has crept up on him too often lately. It's a dangerous thought. He tries not to indulge too often because when he is with, it becomes more difficult to be without. 

And he isn't without, he reminds himself as Jaskier chatters about birdsong beside him. Jaskier has been faithful and kind for many years, despite every bad thing that follows Geralt. He has never left without the intent of return, not until yesterday.

Geralt lapses back into self loathing. He realizes he's being as maudlin and brooding as Jaskier says he is, but the awareness isn't enough to abate the thoughts.

He does not want to listen to cheerful talk as if he can be forgiven so easily. Something must be wrong with Jaskier, in the head, that he can just accept Geralt as he is without question even as he screams at him over incidences that are far more destiny's making than Jaskier's. 

He resolves himself to be kinder, because he cannot have Jaskier leave him as well, not just yet, even if it would be better in the long run.

Jaskier has wormed into his life and created space for himself there, and he is not ready to expose exactly how empty that space is without his presence. He knows Jaskier could fly away at any time and be free, but Geralt cannot. Losing Yennefer has cratered something in him that he does not want to think of nor address, but he will see her again. Their paths will cross and he will have her in his life, one way or another.

If Jaskier goes, he may be gone forever.

Jaskier will one day leave him. He has always known this, but he had never thought Jaskier would walk away just yet. But he would, he _has_ , however momentarily, and it seems every thought Geralt has pushed deep in his minds recesses are coming up all at once.

They talk, and it’s as it was before, a grand relief as he fondly recounts Jaskiers jam-thieving habits and Jaskier feigns shame as he hangs his head, saying it wont happen again. Geralt knows better. It happens at least once a month, if not with jam then with his meals, as Jaskier snatches meat from the plate or a sip of his ale. 

It’s not as if he minds in the slightest. In fact he adores it, and Jaskier must know he does, he's clever under his rambling, stumbling exterior. Sometimes it seems he knows everything. And it's not as if he doesn't give twice as much as he takes, in jam and in everything else he does.

Geralt hadn’t carried spices before they met, hadn’t even known there were so many until Jaskier explained patiently one night that food could have flavor beyond salt and pepper and the few others he could name beyond their scents. He didn't exactly want to ask the ingredients in tavern food and he didnt know anyone he could bring it up to. He didnt want to admit that he generally ate meat raw and unseasoned when he was by himself, because things like that put a spark of fear in people's eyes as they're reminded he's not human despite his shape. 

Jaskier didn't even bat an eye, he just spent time showing Geralt the foods in the market, buzzing between stalls to snag free samples for the two of them. It felt like they were just two normal people, spending their days together. Too easy. He could never have more than a taste, and Jaskier knows that, he knows everything, even things Geralt doesn't know how he knows.

He will kill a large meal tonight, to show how sorry he is. He will even put spices on it. And then he will make a fire and insist Jaskier sit beside it, and he will sit across to make sure he eats. And then he will check on his knees and smell them to see if they’re infected. Jaskier will laugh because he is sniffing his knees, but it will not be a mocking laugh, and he will ask if Geralt is going to lick him next, and Geralt will kind of want to lick him but will refrain because he is aware that sort of thing is frowned upon in society. And then he will be forgiven. This is how he always apologizes to Jaskier, and it nearly always works.

This is not what happens.

He returns to a crackling fire and Jaskier already half asleep beside it. Jaskier rarely expresses desire to make the fire himself unless Geralt is dead tired, but perhaps Geralt took too long to return. And he looks exhausted. 

Geralt is jarred by a twist of concern. Jaskier had not asked for a stop all day long, despite the state of his knees, which is unlike him. He never refrains from asking to stop, extremely vocally and without reprieve. 

He lets him sleep until the meat has been cooked, and offers him his share. But Jaskier shakes his head in refusal, and a spike of genuine worry strikes Geralt as the implication becomes clear.

He doesn’t want his apology yet. Perhaps he is not as forgiven as he had thought, perhaps Jaskier is really very angry at him and this time will take more effort than a simple meal. Then he lies, says he isn't hungry.

Jaskier does not lie to him, as a general rule. And he had said he understood, though it may not mean he is forgiven.

Perhaps he wants Geralt to really work for it. It bothers him that this stubbornness to forgive will hurt Jaskier too, as he sits there eating his fucking jerky. Trying to pass that off as normal when they had only hours ago been discussing his habit of devouring everything in sight. Either he thinks Geralt an idiot or an uncaring friend.

He may be thinking too deeply, perhaps he is simply not hungry. And then concern strikes for a different reason as he reaches to take his temperature. His knees hadn’t looked badly scraped, but Jaskier is only human and Geralt must sometimes remind himself of how fragile he is. Infection and weariness can kill as easily as any blade, and Jaskier is so breakable. He must take better care of him. 

He doesn't have fever. Perhaps, then, he's too tired to eat much. Perhaps it looked undercooked. He should stop thinking about it, because all of his assumptions are equally baseless. He would try harder to win Jaskier's forgiveness regardless, so it's pointless to wonder.

Still, he worries himself into a stomachache over it.


	3. Chapter 3

_He gasps as talons pierce deep, gripping into his stomach and ripping viciously outward to take a section of flesh. He slices its head off smoothly and falls backward to the ground, assessing the damage.  
_

_His intestines hang out, grotesquely visible, and when he was younger the sight might have caused him panic. But he no longer panics for something as easy as death’s embrace. Now he only fears that he will not make it back before the head is eaten, and will not be paid. He sighs at the wave of nausea that overpowers him, and he sets to work stuffing his organs back into his stomach. It’s inconvenient and mind numbingly painful, but nothing he isnt used to._

__

__

_It’s two days before his employer and her sons come looking on horses, and he sits in the same position, taking in shallow breaths to avoid jostling the shredded flesh of his belly. They look at him, pale faced, at his hand where lengths of intestine are trying to escape, slowing the healing process. Where the blood has crusted over and is trying to scab._

__

__

_"Thought you’d done a runner.” A completely idiotic assumption. Given that they hadn’t paid him upfront, there is no reason to leave without completing the job. She smiles at the corpse approvingly. “You’ll live, then?"_

__

__

_He nods._

__

__

_"Need a ride back?"_

__

__

_He shakes his head. He’s half certain he would die if he moved, much less rode a horse. But he has no expectation they would wait for him to heal well enough to ride. It will take at least another day to get on his feet and make his way back._

__

__

_They seem satisfied at the truth of his answers, or perhaps they are simply relieved at the sight of a finished job. A sack of coins lands beside his head and the riders depart. He settles in, holding pressure as best he can._

__

__

_They paid. A pleasant surprise._

__

__

_It isn’t so bad after all, he thinks, wiping ineffectually at the tacky blood spattered in his hair._

__

__

He wakes at dawn still in a foul mood from the previous nights worry, and from the general heaviness that settles over him as he remembers that nothing has gone as planned, as of late. He tries not to take it out on Jaskier, letting him rest longer than usual as Geralt packs up. Jaskier was tired last night, and needs the sleep.

But it's hard not to snap at him when he eats his stupid bread like Geralt isn't even there, like he wouldn't eat something from Geralt of his life depended on it and would prefer to subsist on bread alone.

Roach, of course, is an angel who eats whatever he gives her.

Fine, Jaskier isn't forgiving as easily as he had said, even Geralt can pick up on that. That is fine. They walk along peacefully.

"The, ah, weather, am I right?"

Geralt grunts. At least Jaskier is still talking to him, that's better than when he sulks silently like he thinks Geralt will be angry if he speaks. He hates when Jaskier does that.

"If it starts raining while we're out here I will be so upset. These chafe when they get wet.” Geralt will buy him new clothes, then. Easily settled. “But it'll do the plants some good. They are looking sort of brown. Except those little white ones. They're… actually really cute, look Geralt."

He points at some insignificant flowers, not even particularly pretty, that Geralt could not possibly care less about. Except he wishes Jaskier would pick him one. It's a ridiculous thought that he crushes quickly, lest his mind wander to inconvenient places.

Jaskier continues his idle chatter about flowers and nobles and Oxenfurt. Geralt half-listens, mind wandering against his will.

"-I just can't stand snobbery. Anyway, do you mind if I play my lute? I've had a new song brewing."

"Now you ask before you subject me?" Geralt pokes. And Jaskier smiles bright at him, like always.

But he doesn’t play. Geralt can hear his stomach growling and his mood falls as reality hits him, because this is _not_ like always.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I ate earlier.”

He hates to ask again when he just refused, but it’s very obviously a lie. It’s as if he forgets Geralt sees him all day and knows when he has eaten. He says nothing, unable to continue acting as if everything is fine when Jaskier won't eat and it's more than likely Geralt's fault. He wants to be angry with Jaskier, but he can't seem to muster it. They don't speak.

But Jaskiers stomach growls again when they arrive in town, and Geralt can’t help but bring it up.

“I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” Geralt says on their way out the door to market. This is the perfect time to get something nice for him at the market. Perhaps that’s what Jaskier intends him to do.

“I wasn’t. And besides, I didn’t want to waste your supplies, I can provide for myself.”

“Not a waste, it’s what they’re for,” he mutters to himself, exasperated. Of course Jaskier can provide. He provides plenty. But Geralt wants to provide this.

And then Jaskier runs off, leaving him in favor of flirting with a seller at a market stall. Geralt frowns, feeling jealous and then feeling guilty because he feels jealous, which makes him feel confused.

He misses Yennefer, who didn’t ever try to make him think about his feelings. Jaskier brings up his feelings all the time. It makes him uncomfortably conscious of them, especially in moments like these when Jaskier is not here to help sort them out.

If Jaskier wants some time alone he should have it. They don’t have to do everything together, and it doesn’t mean anything. If it did, Jaskier would say so, he wouldn’t just sit on it because he knows Geralt can’t always figure out what he means, with all his eloquence and clever crafting of words to say only what he wants the audience to hear.

Except, the back of his mind whispers, except when something is really wrong. Because Jaskier does tend to keep his hurt to himself. There are times Geralt is sure there is more beyond the telling, the way he changes the subject when certain subjects are mentioned. And for all the emotion he shamelessly puts on display, Geralt has never seen him cry, even as upset rolls off him in waves.

He would tell him, if something else was going on.

They've not left each other's sight in days, it can't be. This is because he's still rightfully angry with Geralt because Geralt hasn’t found the right way to apologize, and he wants a little space. It’s no big deal. He’s only making it one because everything with Yennefer is so fresh in his mind. Perhaps if he had spoken to her sooner, cleared things up, that would not have happened either.

He will ask tonight to be sure, to show that he has picked up on it and is concerned. It’s the least he can do. He spends an embarrassingly large portion of the day telling Roach about it.

And then he makes his way out to search for a contract. It would be easier with Jaskier there as the mediator, with all his charm and humanity. And when that fails, Geralt is never as insistent that he get paid as Jaskier, who can be surprisingly frightening at times, stringy as he is. But he can manage. He speaks with several people, and arranges to follow up the next morning for more details.

He finds Jaskier at sundown, still near the market. He is with a woman. But this time he is not despoiling her, in need of Geralt to carry him away from chasing angry mobs and angry fathers and husbands and wives.

This time he sits glowing in the setting sun, braiding her hair, and it’s such a domestic scene it makes Geralt soften and hurt in equal measure, because Jaskier is running his hands through her hair, and it is softer than his, and he looks _happy._

Children flock around him like sheep, and Geralt has to look away to staunch the intensity of feeling that hits him, because it’s a glimpse into a life Jaskier should have, the one he wishes he could give to him.

In another life, perhaps he could have had all of it, but- it's inadvisable to dwell on the impossible. It only drives it in deep, just how much Jaskier deserves, just how much Geralt can't give him. How inevitable it is that he realizes this and goes away, if not with this maiden then with another of the endless line of people enamoured with him. It wouldn't be hard for him to go if he pleased, easy as Jaskier is to want to keep, to want to care for. Surrounded by little ones and flowers. In another life.

“Friend of yours?” the woman says, and he is angry because she has a voice like chiming bells and hair of flaxen gold. It’s not her fault.

“He's an acquaintance, yes," Jaskier says sadly. Geralt's chest clenches tight. Jaskier has always called him a friend, even before he considered Jaskier one.

He attempts to school his face into a neutral expression before he turns away, but he's certain he fails. He has to get out of here now, before he does something foolish like drag Jaskier away from his friend. But he wouldn't do that, he has more self control than that. More likely he would simply stand there, upset, until Jaskier inevitably noticed and came to comfort him, and then they could walk back together. Or Jaskier would wave him away to spend time with his newest friend instead.

He could have anything he wants. He’s so full of music and art, not only in his songs but the way he conducts himself and throws himself wholeheartedly into life. Geralt carries supplies, potions and tools and weapons to get him through the day. Jaskier carries only a great love for life, and with that he floats easily through. He could go toward easier horizons. Geralt would not even fault him for it, could not, when Jaskier is such a creature of freedom and life.

But he does not want it to happen.

Not when all he really wants is to sink miserably into bed beside Jaskier and take comfort from his presence in the evening. Not so soon, before he is forgiven for his slight.

Jaskier strides up, having, of course, followed behind him.

“How was your day?”

“Hm.” Terrible, he means. He’s being dramatic.

“Right.” Jaskier sighs. “Not that you care, but mine was grand.”

Geralt slows his gait enough for Jaskier to catch up at a trot and walk beside him.

“I care.”

“Sure.” He waves him off. "Got you jam.”

Geralt takes it, letting his hand linger a moment too long over Jaskiers where he holds the jar out, an offering he has taken for granted for too long. He doesn't know where Jaskier stands now, whether he is as far away as he feels. Because he has bought jam for Geralt.

"Hm.”

Perhaps all is not lost.

He does sink into bed beside Jaskier that night, rumpling the sheets to his liking so they don't let any heat out, because his feet get cold. If he doesn't tuck the sheets just so, he ends up jamming his icy feet under Jaskier in the night, and Jaskier yelps and rolls away, and they aren’t spooning anymore and then he’s even colder.

"Not enough coin for two rooms," Geralt says, his token excuse for such intimacy. He doesn’t know that he could allow himself this without the out. He doesn’t want to cross a line; he never knows when he will go too far, and it's crucial that he never even come close to too far with Jaskier.

From Jaskiers response, he must have fucked it up anyway, though he has no idea how.

Jaskier leans tipsy against the wall, crowded in by people. Geralt sits in the corner in anticipation, working up the nerve to part the crowd to talk to him. He hates being around people. But he knows Jaskier wouldn't forgive him if he left without saying anything.

“I found a contract. Drowners to the North. I should be back by midnight.” He waits. This is Jaskiers cue. He will beg to come along, and Geralt will give a token resistance, and he will trail at a distance for a while before giving up all pretense and walking beside Geralt. And then he will watch the fight and perform first aid afterward, before they walk back together. It’s how they operate.

“Oh, alright. Have fun if you’re physically capable of it.” Geralt blinks.

The previous day sits fresh in his mind, Jaskier braiding her hair, and as often as Geralt discourages him from coming along because it isn’t safe, he has become… accustomed to it. He gawks, and Jaskier turns back to him dismissively.

“Midnight, yes? I’ll have them draw a bath in your room.”

Geralt clears his throat, hurt despite himself. “Not going to beg to come along?”

“I have coin to count. You know I’m ridiculously popular here? I’ve been propositioned by three married couples. Not husbands, nor wives, couples.”

This is good. He should want this. Years ago he would have wanted this. And he isn’t jealous, he isn’t, because the two of them aren’t like that. But Jaskier _braided her hair,_ and-

“Braggart.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Maybe,” Geralt says without meaning to.

“I’ll be sure to defer them to you next,” Jaskier says with an odd look on his face. “You’re being weird.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Oh, you could say the same? You say things now?” he grins but it’s flat, none of the emotional expression that comes so naturally to Jaskier. “I’m always weird, unique, individual, special, and one of a kind. Not to mention interesting, and any other synonyms I may have missed. It’s why I’m so unendingly popular.” He gestures wildly to his adoring fans, the many, many people Jaskier could have.

“Hm. Behave,” he says, and then stomps away as Jaskier begins another song. He’s got to pack, but first he must take a moment to sit in the stables.

Geralt stands in the doorway, feeling wrong footed. He doesn't want to come along. That’s fine. Good, even. It’s good because it will be safer, simpler not to worry about the idiot while he fights.

Except that isn't true. Jaskier has, over their years together, become somewhat capable. He knows how to clean and dress a wound in the field, can even fend for himself when need calls. He knows Geralt better than anyone. Geralt can give him instructions with just a glance. And he trusts Jaskier to have his back.

Geralt won't begrudge him to stay, though, especially if it means admitting he would benefit in any way from having him along. His ego would burst. He’s too damn self assured as it is, from his childhood of pampering followed by immense fame following him around. Naturally he prefers his present company to Geralt, covered in mud and blood as they tromp thanklessly through the woods.

But he _always_ comes.

Geralt sets off with Roach instead because Roach has never done anything wrong in her life, besides the occasional time he finds her on a rooftop. She always eats when he feeds her. She always accompanies him, and never once has she stayed behind to have a threesome. As far as he knows.

He’s not sulking about it. He’s _not._

“I’m not sulking,” he says to Roach, who is eyeing him with an unwarranted long-suffering attitude. She huffs. "Shut it."

He doesn't sulk, because he is not upset. He continues not being upset all the way out to the forest.

 _He wakes groggy, aching, but it's not the miserable, filthy pain he is accustomed to in the day after such a hunt. He can’t feel where his fast healing has caused gravel to heal into his skin, where it needs to be cut open and removed to prevent infection, can’t feel the hard ground where he’s collapsed in a heap wherever he managed to crawl to safety in the woods._

_It’s soft, warm. Shifting, he feels the bandages over his arm, where someone inexperienced has clumsily tied them off. He’s in a bed, and there is a warm presence at his back-_

__

__

_"Are you spooning me?" He asks, too incredulous to be angry. The idiot bard flails awake at his voice, and tumbles off the side of the bed._

__

__

_"You're awake!" He grins, and Geralt glares. "How do you feel? Better? I thought you might have a head wound last night you weren't responding really and-" he jabbers away, climbing back onto the bed, and Geralt takes in his surroundings._

__

__

_The room is in complete disarray. A trail of mud from the door to bed, where he must have been dragged, his boots removed where they sit by the beds end. Sprawled across the floor are medical supplies that the fool surely hadn't used correctly. Wasted on Geralt regardless, since he can heal quickly without, though he does feel considerably less stiff and less completely miserable than he usually does after these things._

__

__

_Jaskier chatters on, absentmindedly braids his hair, which is smooth- he must have brushed it out while Geralt was sleeping. Of all things to do to a sleeping Witcher, especially one he’s known less than a month. Fingers card through the greasy strands to twist them back, out of his face. He closes his eyes at the touch, as Jaskiers calloused fingers linger on his scalp boldly, without disgust at the filth in his hair, nor an ounce of fear in his movements. As though he doesn’t realize he’s doing the equivalent of petting a wild animal and hoping it doesn’t bite._

__

__

_It’s nice._

__

__

_"-and you aren’t listening at all. Right. I’ll call for a bath, back in a moment." He makes to leave and Geralt's eyes snap open._

__

__

_"Jaskier."_

__

__

_"Yes?"_

__

_"There’s no need for all this. Don’t waste coin." He will berate him on wasting medical supplies and muddying the sheets later, when the comfort of the pillow has worn off and he is clear headed._

__

__

_"You know it's not a hardship to be nice to you. You're my friend, remember that," the idiot says, and Geralt tries hard not to hear it. He doesn't have friends, he doesn't need help to bathe or clean his wounds or warm his blankets._

__

__

_"We are not friends. End of story."_

__

__

_"Okay, okay, end of story." He rolls his eyes. "I'm calling for a bath, _for me,_ and if you want a turn then it’s up to you. Be a waste of coin if you didn’t use it while it’s warm, though, since you’re so frugal," he winks and is out the door before his warm spot in the bed has cooled. Geralt lies back and sighs, scalp still tingling from the touch._

__

__

_And that’s only the beginning._


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt nearly makes it to the forest to complete the contract without any bullshit happening at all. But not quite.

He has only just passed the last buildings on his way out of town when a cloaked figure approaches. He’s lost on his thoughts about Jaskier, and only moves to the side to give the person space as he and Roach puzzle over the situation. He reminds himself to stop thinking about it, as it will only serve as a distraction on the job.

And then that smell, the familiar mix of lilac and lightning, hits him like a slap to the face. This is no stranger. His stomach drops. It's too soon.

Of course Yennefer took the same route down the mountain that they did. How else would his life go but the least convenient way? He would prefer to give her some space, to push down the feelings he holds for her and let her go. It’s what she told him she wanted, in no uncertain terms, for Yennefer does not deal in uncertainties.

She's surely noticed his presence on the path, he would do best to simply avoid her. But she meets his eyes beneath the cloak and approaches.

"Geralt."

"Yennefer."

Now is the time to walk away and pretend this hasn't happened, but neither of them move.

"You should talk to him. He forgives easily, especially you."

There’s no question who she’s talking about. She knows his feelings about Jaskier better than anyone. He wonders if she has spoken to Jaskier before coming here, or if she is merely reading Geralt's mind, which is admittedly preoccupied with Jaskier at the moment. Probably the latter, as he can't imagine her intentionally seeking out Jaskiers company for any reason whatsoever, especially not for an idle chat.

"And what about you?" It's a foolish question, one he already knows the answer to. It's too soon.

"I am not your bard. I do not pass around my heart like bread for breaking," she says coldly. "Not even against my will."

Her words only confirm what he knows. Though they both appear to stand together on the path, they are alone. He has lost her. She hates him.

"Idiot, you claim to reject destiny but you act like everything is fated to end in doom." She is definitely reading his mind. "You see only what you want to see- I'm here talking to you aren’t I? If I hated you, I could turn you into a toad or worse and-"

"Just because you are tied and forced to see me-"

"Don't interrupt me, I wasn't done speaking," she says evenly, and his jaw shuts with a click. "If there is a way to reverse our tie, that I can have what I want- know _who I want_ \- only then I will decide if I truly hate you."

He does not know what to say, so he says nothing. All other reasons aside, he had thought she was the one person he could tie to him without consequence, powerful as she is. The one person who might not resent him for it. But by keeping her when she did not want to be kept, he has thrown away his chance to have her at all.

She sighs, looking worn. "It's not too late to be happy." It looks like she's trying to convince herself more than him. "I'll see you soon, won't I."

She sweeps past him, power echoing down the way. And he and Roach turn to head into the woods. Strangely enough, his head is clearer than before, because that did not go as badly as it could have.

He thinks about what Yennefer has said. She needs space, time. Jaskier does too. For all that those two hate each other, they are alike in this, in caring about Geralt only to have him throw it in their face.

And he has been rash going into this, with both of them. He has not stopped to think about the situation without his assumptions. That everything will inevitably go to shit one way or another, that he is no one's first choice and must either go to drastic lengths to remedy that or simply accept it as his due.

But there is no evidence to show Jaskier thinks of him that way, that he would be tossed aside now after their time together. they have had many disputes over the years and Jaskier has never left him permanently. Nor has Yennefer, but that is not by her own making. He tries to see past what he is making the situation out to be.

The evidence is a confusing jumble of genuine concern mixed with behaviors that could just be Jaskier’s idiosyncrasies. Perhaps he should take Yennefer's advice and speak to him as he spoke to her. Hadn't he thought just earlier that he should talk to him? Just ask him? He will, as soon as he gets back. He resolves himself to ask.

He misses her. He wouldn't say so, but she already knows. She always knows. And he hacks his way through Drowners with practiced ease, wishing every problem was as easy to take down.

-

The hunt went… not poorly, as he got the job done. But not well either. That's nothing new, it's a part of life. The gash on his back is hopefully minor, bleeding sluggishly where he cannot reach to touch or inspect it, much less bandage it himself. He feels like shit, honestly, and wants nothing more than to immediately sleep when he gets to the inn. It's late, Jaskier will be done with his set and he'll come to bed warm, with quiet chatter to calm Geralt's head.

He opens the door to their room and his heart stops.

Jaskier is gone. This would be of no worry, as Jaskier flits from one place to the next before settling in for the night, but his lute is gone too, and that means he is _gone._

This cannot be happening. Not again. He's too late. Geralt slumps against the wall silently. He needs a moment to think about this, about how to move forward from here. But he can't think of anything at all except that he's too late, that for all his resolve to talk to Jaskier he will not be able to do a thing, for he has misjudged how heavily Jaskier resents him.

Jaskier can leave when he pleases. He is his own man and owes Geralt less than nothing. But Geralt wishes he'd had a chance to say goodbye.

The bed creaks as he lies down to soak in the deafening silence. If Geralt imagines, he can pretend it's okay. He can almost hear Jaskier gently scolding him for getting hurt, minor as the injury is. He can see him digging around for something to take down the story before it's even told, he can even smell-

He bolts upright. Jaskiers smell. It lingers here, he can’t have been gone long.

He’s here. Somewhere.

The innkeeper, sweeping the doorstep, gives him a suspicious glance as he strides up.

"Where is the bard?"

"Your famous compatriot?" says the old man. He shrugs. "In his room."

"I was just in our room."

"He got another one. Drunk as he was, I bet he forgot he had a bed already," he chuckles, apparently amused enough to have let him, and not nearly generous enough to remind him he already had a room. With Geralt. "Real maudlin drunk, that one."

Some sliver of him believes he must have the wrong bard. Jaskier is anything but maudlin when drunk, he becomes overly friendly and chatty and causes them both a world of trouble without fail. But if Jaskier is still here, he must use whatever information he can get. He's overreacting, Jaskier is sleeping with someone and got a room.

And he brought his things along, because… something. It doesn't add up.

He follows the scent down the hall, to the room several doors down, hurrying because on the off chance he isn't abandoning Geralt in the night he's probably off getting beaten up by someone's husband, and Geralt has to open the door right now to put a stop to it, and the door swings open, hitting the wall with a crack.

It’s dark, quiet. There lies Jaskier, in the bed, peacefully asleep. He flails, startled awake.

“I bite,” says Jaskier nonsensically as he sits up on the bed, blinking blearily in alarm. He looks exhausted, and Geralt almost pities waking him as he takes in the dark circles under his eyes. He clears his throat at the tide of relief that threatens to overwhelm him. Jaskier is still here, he has not left and is in no danger. He has worried for nothing. Except that his lute sits in the corner of it's new home.

“You got a room,” he growls, wrongfooted. Jaskier hadn't said anything about getting a room.

“Geralt?” He sits up. “No one taught you to knock? Could’ve been naked. With somebody.”

“I only smelled you.” They've never needed to knock before, but that was before Jaskier decided he needed his own room. The dizzy gratitude at the fact that he isn't gone is overshadowed by the fact that he is clearly still planning on going. Just at a slower rate. He's not going to flee in the night, he's going to pull away bit by bit until he’s free.

“Are you hurt?" Jaskier asks sleepily.

“No.” He isn't hurt badly enough to ask Jaskier to help. He's already intruded into his space tonight and it would be unreasonable to demand more attention when it's clear Jaskier does not want to give it. He doesn't need the care, only wants it. It's a luxury he has taken for granted far too long. Jaskier wants space, and Geralt intends to give him that. He can tend the wound himself. Maybe. He can try and reach it with a cloth on a stick or something. Or leave it be, as he would have in the days before he met Jaskier. The alternative is driving Jaskier away slowly by forcing Jaskier to tend to him, which would be infinitely worse in the long run.

“Don't lie to me,” slurs Jaskier in his no-nonsense tone that brooks no argument.

“Not badly.”

“Let’s have a look-see.” He stands, and Geralt knows he should tell him it's really alright. But he's weak, and he doesn't need it but he wants it very much. And Jaskier is telling him to, so he can't be all that opposed. If he were, he would simply tell Geralt no, and Geralt would leave him be.

At least some things haven't changed, he thinks, desperate for something to cling to as Jaskier sits by the tub, tracing over the skin of his back. He's losing Jaskier. This is a nightmare.

Maybe he can still talk to him. He has to try, and this may be his only chance.

“You've been different lately," he tries.

“You noticed."

"Hm."

"It's just… nothing really. On the mountain I was upset about, y'know, all that stuff you said, and I thought we could never travel together again." Geralt nods.

"But since we obviously are traveling together, I’m working on it. Really working on it. Things will be fine between us in good time,” he says, the words a soothing wash over Geralt as Jaskier’s hands catch on his hair to untangle the knots. Jaskier is not going away at all, then. He is only taking time, like Yennefer, to let the hurt settle and heal. “You understand, don't you, that it will take time?”

“Take all the time you need," he says in what is hopefully a reassuring tone. Jaskier could take an eternity and he could wait. Anything.

“Thank you. I’ll get there eventually, we’ll be regular traveling companions again, without the same mistakes as last time." It's a veiled warning that he hears loud and clear. He will not make the same mistakes. He is learning. They are talking, something they have never done so candidly. "It’ll be even better than before. I just need some time to get there. You won't regret this.”

“Of course, Jaskier, I wouldn’t begrudge you that." Jaskier sounds too grateful, too quick to reassure, as if it's his fault he can't forgive Geralt right away. It's disgusting. He wishes he could show him somehow that he doesnt need to reassure Geralt, that his presence is enough.

"Thank you. Really, thank you."

Geralt bows his head in shame. He should be the one thanking Jaskier for giving him a second chance. But at least they've talked about it. At least now he knows the full extent of the damage he has wrought, so he can better deal with the aftermath.

But he doesn't know what to do for Jaskier, when he won't let him help with anything. It was his turn to pay for the room tonight, but Jaskier got his own. He only wishes he was better at being a person. Everyone except for him seems to know the right things to do and say.

He's just got to give it time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have given me prompts- I am gonna write em once this story is done!


	5. Chapter 5

After their enlightening conversation at the washtub, things make sense again.

And then they don't.

There are too many people out today, swarming the streets like vermin. Jaskier has bought him a cheap hat, and it’s much too large. But its effect is immediate; the sea of eyes that follow him through most public settings are all but gone, and the shadow of the wide brim calms him, muting the flurries of motion and light and sound that irritate his heightened senses. It’s a good hat.

His gratitude over the hat is quickly overshadowed with annoyance as Jaskier darts off to beckon to a stray dog in an alley. It's a hideous creature, all mangy fur stretched over hulking muscle.

Geralt keeps a hand on his sword for when the creature inevitably decides to bite Jaskier and must be put down swiftly. Unlike Jaskier, he has learned the hard way not to trust something just because it looks pathetic. If anything, a wounded animal is more dangerous than a healthy one.

But Jaskier is nothing if not kind, and does nothing if not befriend those undeserving of kindness.

“Who’s a good boy? You are!” he reaches out to inspect it’s paw, but it backs away, snarling. Just as Geralt suspected, it's vicious. He nearly steps between them but stops himself as Jaskier tosses it a piece of bread.

He likes watching Jaskier at work. And these, small kindnesses _are_ his work, as much as his music. They are the reason he gains admirers, even of those who never hear his music but only see the sincerity of his actions.

Still, it would be best if Jaskier had a modicum of sense and would leave the damned thing alone to its misery, so they could get back to the inn. His skin crawls at the sensations of so many people nearby.

“Geralt, feel free to run along to the inn, I may be awhile at this," Jaskier says over his shoulder as if reading his mind.

Geralt gives a “hm,” hands still on his sword, and Jaskier turns back to his task with complete focus. The dog is skittish, but after several more pieces of bread it’s comfortable enough that he can pet it, and finally he coaxes it into lying its head in his lap so he can take a look at it’s paw.

“Good boy, good boy. You have a splinter don’t you? Oh dear.” He kisses the dogs head. “Doctor Jaskier on the case. And you’re nurse dog. Or I suppose you’d be the patient, actually, that’s stupid of me-”

“Are you done roleplaying with the stray dog?” Geralt says. Jaskier startles and turns, as if surprised to see Geralt still behind him. Did he really think Geralt would just leave him? He hardly wants to navigate crowded streets without Jaskier beside him, nor let Jaskier deal with a wild animal without him overseeing.

“Somebody has to do it,” Jaskier mutters, and takes out the creature's splinter without complaint from the animal.

The dog whimpers and he turns back to it, shushing it and trying in vain to unmat it’s fur. Of course it's friendly to Jaskier. If Geralt approached it, it would be a different story entirely. But everyone likes Jaskier.

“We aren’t keeping it,” Geralt says sternly, but his soft, fond expression undercuts the words. Even Geralt can be stirred by the picture Jaskier makes, pride shining through Jaskiers expression as he smiles.

"Of course not. It shouldn’t be bound to our lifestyle, it would get eaten in a heartbeat. It should be free to roam as it likes." He releases the dog and stands. Geralt's smile wavers. Shouldn’t be bound, indeed. He hopes Jaskier doesn't feel like he too is bound. "Go, dog, live happily and splinter free!"

Geralt turns away for a moment and finds himself jostled away by the throngs of people. He glances back to Jaskier.

Some fan of Jaskier’s approaches and starts talking to him. Geralt makes himself scarce, attempting to find a quiet place to the side to wait for him to be done. But the crowds push and pull. Without Jaskiers hand to ground and guide him, it is easy to be overwhelmed again by the sensory overload.

He manages to make it to the side of the street where he can press with his back flat against a wall as he looks for Jaskier, who stands by the alley still, meeting Geralt's eye.

Jaskier waves him over and he comes obediently, hurried by the need to stand behind Jaskier in case he needs protection. And if he stays closer than usual, nearly touching, it is simply because he prefers the feeling of Jaskiers soft clothing to the rough elbows of crowds. Jaskier’s fan is laughing heartily when Geralt comes to stand inconspicuously beside him.

"-you were such an easy target, it was pathetic." Jaskier shuffles his feet and says nothing, shame pouring off him in waves. This doesn't sound like a fan. Who has Jaskier managed to piss off this time? "Oh, I'm only joking Julian, don't look like that."

"It's Jaskier," Jaskier says in a timid voice he rarely uses with Geralt. Geralt’s gaze flickers between the two. This man calls him Julian. A childhood friend, then; he had once mentioned that he was called by that name in his youth.

Jaskier has never mentioned his childhood friends, though. Something strikes Geralt as odd about that. Jaskier has almost never referenced his childhood the entire time he’s known him, for all that he talks. Perhaps he's ashamed of Geralt- but he's never been before.

And the way Jaskier is hunched just slightly, making himself small and stiff, does not sit well.

"We truly must be going," says Jaskier, voice light.

"Too much of a star for my company? I seem to remember you weren’t so bigheaded when we were younger. Remember when we set a beehive on you as a prank? And afterward you _apologized._ " He chuckles.

Geralt's hackles raise at the words. He often finds himself stressed at mere scrapes on Jaskier, and if he had heard of someone setting _bees_ on him, on purpose-

So this is no fan nor friend, but a childhood bully. Geralt is glad Jaskier waved him over, he is going to enjoy watching Jaskier verbally tear into him. He looks to Jaskier, who is surely outraged at the audacity of this man, and- Jaskier is _smiling_.

Geralt has seen him deck men over a harsh word, give thorough tongue lashings over less, and he is standing here speaking in pleasantries as he is openly mocked. The man doesn't have bodyguards, nor does he look especially strong. He hates to make a scene dragging Jaskier away, but someone apparently set bees on Jaskier and laughed about it. He couldn't imagine doing something so intentionally cruel to him, regardless of how annoying he can be. Not to _Jaskier_. Geralt may be a monster himself, but even he has boundaries. He already hates this idiot.

Jaskier’s hand on his arm is the only thing keeping him from heading to the inn right now and sitting in a quiet place for the rest of the day, because the crowd is loud and the smells clog his nose and hurt his head, and this bastard is _hurting Jaskiers feelings._

And Jaskier is smiling stiffly, playing at polite amusement.

"Perhaps someone should put you in your place. Stay, come play for me for a few weeks, I demand you-"

"He said he wants to go," snaps Geralt.

Jaskiers mouth is forming another weak refusal. He can't let Jaskier go with this man. He’s acting like a different person, like the one this irritating man describes, without Jaskiers big head or unapologetic nature. Jaskier has never behaved this way.

"You have a bodyguard,” the man says, looking Geralt up and down, sizing him up. “Can you afford that?”

It’s polite, but even Geralt knows the statement is a jab at something. Wealth, perhaps; he is dressed in expensive garb. Surely some sort of nobility, with his stupid clothes, even frillier than Jaskiers. Frilly arsehole. Geralt wishes they would speak plainly instead of having a conversation in subtext he has no context to understand.

"This is Geralt of Rivia. He’s not my bodyguard. Geralt, this is an...old friend,” Jaskier grits out.

Geralt waits for him to snap, to go into a rant about what a dickhead this man is.

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure," the frilly bastard says without a second glance at Geralt. "Julian," Geralt rolls his eyes at the misnomer, Jaskier had just corrected him moments ago. " I want you to come play for me. The Countess de Stael speaks highly of you, I want to see for myself that you’re competent at something." Geralt himself remarks about Jaskiers incompetence all the time, but only ever in jest. The grating honesty in his voice rings clear, and Geralt is hit with a childish impulse to list Jaskiers musical accolades, or some other form of corrective braggery. Anything to wipe that smug look from his face.

"Give the Countess my regards," Jaskiers voice says, though his twitching hands say that he wants to go.

"I must say I’m surprised you're not crawling back to her again, the way she had you trained at her beck and call," he laughs again, the laugh of a close friend sharing an inside joke, and turns to Geralt. "Is he the same way with you? Obedient?"

Geralt has killed human beings before. He doesn't enjoy doing it. He _doesn't,_ he reminds himself urgently.

"He's not a pet. He does what he pleases," Geralt says hypocritically. Here he is, thinking he should keep Jaskier from going with someone who has hurt him, when he is no better himself.

But he can't leave Jaskier here alone with him either, when he is nearly harassing Jaskier to come with him without considering that Jaskier doesn't want to. And Jaskier is so alarmingly nonchalant about it that he might actually go.

He meets the fool's eyes, intentionally letting the light under the brim to hit his yellow irises, just to watch the dawning fear.

But the man only grabs Jaskiers arm and whispers to him, getting his name wrong again. "Julian, are you mad? Surely even you know your life is at stake if you travel with… if you don't obey the beast, he might-"

“Might what?” Jaskier asks, voice finally gaining an edge that should have been present from the start. “I’ve known him for years, and he treats me well. Have you seriously not heard any of my music at all?"

Geralt wonders the same thing, as he has insulted Jaskiers musical ability as if he is unaware of Jaskiers status across the Continent as a star.

“Come with me instead. You know those things aren’t people.”

The inevitable. He’s let this go on long enough, he’s going to just take Jaskiers hand and they’ll walk away now.

“Shut up." This is the Jaskier he knows.

“It’s not your friend, at any moment it could snap and-”

Geralt sees the punch coming before it is thrown. Pride swells in him at Jaskier’s excellent form.

He’s used to carrying Jaskier away from fights on his behalf. It’s almost a comfort, the familiarity, to pull him away as the conversation runs through his head over and over, and he begins to suspect there is more to this than he sees.

Thinking back, he can't remember a single time Jaskier has gotten into a fistfight over his own honor, always laughing off insults as if they were meant only for his amusement, relishing any attention, even negative attention. At worst, he would feign offense at such things, return in kind as he often would with Yennefer. Nothing touches Jaskier. But perhaps that's a foolish belief, he thinks, remembering how he looked on the mountain with that look on his face, when he walked away to get the story from the others and never came back.

He hadn't defended himself then. He hadn't used fists- but then neither had Geralt. He hadn't needed to.

Jaskier alternates between sullen and pissed off, at the inn, and he rants about the injustice of Witcher prejudice until Geralt can't stand to listen to it anymore. He needs to do something to be there for Jaskier, to cheer him up. He always likes going on contracts- except he didn't want to, the last time he offered. He will ask, regardless, and if Jaskier refuses, he will bring him back the story. He always likes when Geralt gives the details.

He leaves to find a contract. As he makes his way out the door, he runs smack into the frilly bastard from earlier, probably come to try to harass Jaskier some more.

It was foolish of him to follow the two of them here. At least he's foolish enough that he hasn't brought guards for Jaskier’s arrest, as that would be more difficult to get around- though not the most trouble they've been in, not by a long shot.

The man is alone. A twinge of malicious joy hits Geralt at the deep bruise already forming on his jaw.

He does a double take, seeing who he has run into.

"Witcher, ah, imagine seeing you again so soon. I was just-"

"Leave Jaskier alone."

"I was just," he stutters, looking like he's about to piss himself. Geralt doesn't prefer it, having this effect on people, but there are times it is useful. "I'm not an unreasonable man, Witcher. Though I have connections, I'm not going to have either of you arrested for this,” he says, gesturing to the bruise with a flourish.

He says it with an air of graciousness, as if expecting Geralt to kneel before him for the kindness. Geralt grunts, waiting for the catch.

"...So long as Julian agrees to perform for me while he is here."

There it is.

"He said no."

"He doesn't know what's best for him! He is always biting the hand that feeds him. I pay well; by all means he should want this, and I demand you let me through to ask him before I sic the police on you both."

He scoffs. "I have a better idea. You tell me what you did to Jaskier and fuck off forever, and I let you live."

He wouldn't really kill him. But he doesn't have to know that.

"I didn't do anything to him!" he insists, and it even sounds like he _believes_ it. It only serves to piss him off even more.

Geralt shoves him into the wall.

He scrabbles for purchase. "Alright, so I picked on him a bit in our youth, but he didn't mind. All in good fun. Why do you care?"

He thinks of Jaskier inside, sulking. It's none of Geralt's business, he shouldn't be prying into this. Geralt sighs and let's him fall to the ground. "I don't."

Something changes in the frilly fucker's expression, and at once he's gone from frightened prey to a smug, calculating predator. "Why _do_ you care so much about Julian's affairs? I know your kind don’t have friends.” Geralt does not react. If he shows any expression, the fool will latch onto it and he will know the truth. “If he's not your pet, what is he exactly," he questions quietly, as if talking to himself more than Geralt, and coming to a conclusion.

Geralt growls, and refuses to break eye contact, to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's hit precisely what he thinks he has.

"You know, if he thinks it will get him attention he'll do... just about anything." His gaze flickers down Geralt's body with a knowing look. "He doesn't know how to say no, I've heard, it wouldn't be difficult to-"

He doesn't want to hear any more. It was wrong to engage in this conversation at all. This isn't his to know unless Jaskier wants him to know it, and he doesn't even want to think about what he may have been about to suggest. In a violent flash he has him again by the throat, the end of his sentence lost in a gasp. Geralt doesn't need words to make this point.

"You'll leave us alone."

It is not a suggestion. Gerat flexes fingers effortlessly tighter against his windpipe. The man nods, frantic and choking, and Geralt leaves him there, coughing, as he storms off to find a contract. He needs something to distract Jaskier from the displeasure of the afternoon, and himself from that nauseating conversation. And Jaskier might say no. Geralt won't mind, he repeats to himself. He will not mind. He is not going to be a possessive shit who can't take a hint.

But later, when he tells Jaskier to come along on the hunt, Jaskiers face lights up. It's as if the whole thing had never happened. He should have known he would bounce back from his earlier mood. Nothing keeps Jaskier down for long. He's never even seen the man cry; Jaskier is simply too happy, too clever to be affected by mere words from a fool like that.

Still, the conversation echoes in his head the rest of the night. And he begins to have his doubts.


	6. Chapter 6

He sharpens his sword in his room. Jaskier isn’t there, having gotten his own room for the night, again. It does not bother him whatsoever.

He presses the whetstone to the blade forcefully. The sound irritates him somehow, all of them do. The tapping of rain on the window, the noise of people in the nearby rooms. It all serves to highlight the unsettling lack of scratchy writing and muttered half-songs that once occupied his evenings.

Alright, maybe he wants something to fill the oppressive silence. Jaskier has always been good for that. He sighs and sets the blade aside, too distracted to bother with it as the silence grows and grows.

It gives him all too much time with his thoughts. 

He thinks of Yennefer, counting down the moments until they are thrust together again and he must make himself unaffected by her. He thinks of Roach and how she needs a new shoe. He thinks of Jaskier, and the way he wouldn't let Geralt even look at his hurt thigh on their most recent hunt, and the things he says now that he's never said before. Things that don't quite add up. 

Even just that morning, when Geralt's stitches tore and he asked Jaskier to redo them.

_He sits perfectly still as the needle threads through his skin and Jaskier talks about breakfast._

_"Can you-"_

_"Shut up? Yes, I know how you loathe when I speak to you when you need stitching. Which is the greater pain to you, the needle or my voice? Don't answer that." He chuckles in an un-Jaskierly fashion, and they lapse into silence. Uncomfortable, thick silence. Unbreakable silence. Silence that seems to pervade even when they speak, distance that grows even as Jaskier leans close to thread into his skin._

_He wasn't even going to ask him to shut up. He only wanted him to pass the bruise balm._

He wants to mention it. Jaskier keeps making remarks like that, sharp and self deprecating. They're accusatory- barbs to poke at the wound, to remind Geralt of how cruel he has been. It's petty. Shame prickles at his skin. He has witnessed this pettiness from Jaskier before, but it has never before been aimed at him. 

But Jaskier hadn't met his eyes in the mocking challenge, and his voice held no hint of bitter irony. And his hands are gentle and steady as he redoes the stitches, no vindictively deep pricks of the needle. He's still _kind,_ with all appearances of sincerity even as he becomes increasingly withdrawn.

Snippets of conversation trickle to the forefront of his mind. Jaskier is obedient to a fault, according to the snide idiot from the street. It seems like a complete lie from a complete tosser. But if Jaskier is being kind despite his distaste for Geralt, perhaps it is because he feels obligated in some way. Perhaps he only went hunting because Geralt told him to. He will stop telling him what to do, then, and see if that changes anything, gives Jaskier any measure of goodwill toward him. At this point he can admit to himself that he is desperate, nothing is working and he doesn't know what will _work._

Still, he can't shake the feeling that he is missing something.

He has pieces.

He doesn't know how they fit together.

Jaskier isn't well. He smells vaguely sour, and his steps are measured in the calculated way of someone rationing energy. 

Geralt can't bring it up, not when Jaskier avoids his gaze each time he even mentions the "scratch," which is likely more serious according to the way Jaskier favors one side. Geralt won't push, he will only offer help if asked. 

He should have known better from the moment they set off.

They have made it only a few miles when Jaskier falls down. It's so quiet Geralt nearly doesn't even turn back, wouldn't have thought to expect that Jaskier makes a wounded little noise, and he turns to see what is the matter.

Jaskier is sprawled across the dust, lute facedown where it has fallen. He struggles to sit up.

"My lute," Jaskier gasps, and holds it to his chest pitifully, looking flushed and terrible, so out of it he is likely unaware that Geralt is watching. Jaskier makes several pathetic attempts to stand on his own, and it’s obvious they should have stopped far sooner. Should have stayed in town and found a physician.

Jaskier looks up at him with big soft eyes, still trying to stand up, and asks in the most pathetic voice.

"I'm sorry, can we stop- just for a little while?"

And then the idiot tries to stand again before he can even answer. It would be adorable if not so alarming. Geralt curses himself for not noticing, and steadies him even as he protests.

"I can keep going, on second thought-"

"Shut up, Jaskier.” As if he could keep walking now and Geralt would allow it. He's being completely ridiculous. 

Geralt carries him to a patch of moss by a tree and sets him there, because they’re absolutely stopping here for the night. Jaskier keeps babbling nonsense, and Geralt runs his hands over his face and shoulders to reassure him- but moreover to reassure himself, heart in his throat as Jaskiers skin dampens his hands with sweat. Fevers high enough make people lose their minds, and he couldnt possibly lose him to something as stupid as this, not when Jaskier has braved much worse at his side and come out alive. _He doesn't want Jaskier to die hating him,_ be thinks, and he hates himself for the thought. Selfish.

Geralt tucks him into his neck, sweat-damp hair clinging to his chin, and Jaskier wont stop apologizing, as if Geralt would be angry with him for being hurt. He _is_ angry, in a distant way that he will shove down deep until this passes. But only at the deception, because Jaskier must have known he was ill and intentionally hidden it. But he puts it aside, the anger overpowered by concern as Jaskier doesn't stop apologizing even when Geralt assures him there’s nothing to be sorry for, and that no, he doesn't have a horse, and Valdo Marx isn’t here stealing his trophy so he should stop wriggling around and stay put. He is too hot, the fever addling him to speak complete nonsense.

Finally, Jaskier relaxes into his shoulder and stays there, heart pounding. Geralt needs to hold him even closer, somehow. He shivers violently despite the waves of heat pooling off his body.

He goes to fetch water, leaving Roach in charge. She always knows what to do. 

Geralt frets for the rest of the day. It’s as if all the urges he’s felt over the past several weeks are all coming to hit him at once. He’s grateful, at least, that no one but Roach is here to see him obsessively pacing as the sun moves across the sky. 

The infection is from the "scratch," the one that was apparently no big deal but which is deep, dark red and puffy. He mutters curses over it as he tenderly drains and rebandages the area. Stupid. Completely stupid.

He dampens and dampens clothes to place on Jaskiers head, and then Jaskier is shivering, so he makes a fire and covers him in blankets and paces. 

Jaskier half-wakes in the afternoon, thrashing. Geralt holds him still as he babbles more nonsense. And then Jaskier is too hot, and he moves him away from the fire and replaces the clothes and makes him drink, and then he’s shivering again and it's back by the fire, and he organizes and reorganizes his supplies.

Geralt curses himself for letting it get to this point without interfering, without insisting that he get treatment. He had believed Jaskier when he said it was a minor injury, because Jaskier doesnt lie to him, ever.

Jaskier said he was going to forgive Geralt in time, but it seems laughable if he can't even trust him to tell him of an injury until it's this bad, if he can't stand to have Geralt near him even to bandage him. Being around Geralt is hurting him, and he wont even let Geralt make up for it, apologize and care for him in return for all the care Jaskier gives him. Why pretend there's a chance at all?

But he’s still missing one of the pieces, the one that would make this whole picture make sense. 

Jaskier wants to leave him, but he beams when Geralt invites him on a hunt. Jaskier says he would do anything for him, but won’t let him tend his wound. Jaskier is not his pet. Jaskier gets into fistfights for him. Jaskier brings him jam, and it sits uneaten in his bag. 

And fuck, he’s burning up and what if he never- 

Forgiveness be damned, he can't let Jaskier do this any longer. This can't happen again. As soon as he wakes up he'll tell him, and the look of relief on Jaskiers face will be enough to make it worthwhile. He won't have to suffer Geralt's company any longer than the trip to the nearest town to find a physician. 

When Jaskier finally sits up with a groan, Geralt has just returned from dampening the clothes for the fifth or seventh time, and he practically runs to his side. 

He should say something tactful. 

"Why didnt you tell me you had a fucking infection?" 

Not his best attempt. But he says it without vitriol. Jaskier needs rest and not anger. it’s difficult to keep the wound up mass of his feelings from snapping like twine. 

"I thought I could handle it." 

"Why?" 

"Why? You think I can't handle myself? I got myself hurt. I thought I could deal with the consequences myself." 

"Obviously you fucking couldn’t,” he snarls. So much for tact. “Just because you want distance between us doesn't mean you can-" It’s unacceptable that it’s gotten to this point. He should have done this ages ago. He has to do this _right now,_ before he loses the nerve. “I'm leaving you in the next town." 

"But-" 

"This clearly isn’t working." 

“Please, I'm trying. Let me come with you." 

The pain in his voice only cements it further. 

“It's obvious you don’t even want to. Don't drag this out," he begs. 

Jaskier stares at him in utter bewilderment. “Why would I want to be left?!” 

"You've been distancing yourself,” he says bluntly. This little game is over, the two of them pretending what's happening isn't happening, and Jaskier needs to stop pretending now. “You said- I didn’t expect immediate forgiveness. I thought you were working on it- but that doesn't mean you should force yourself to be near me when it's clear you can’t stand it." 

“I’ve been trying-” 

“Shut up." He doesn’t need excuses, doesn't want them. He understands why Jaskier wants to go, and he agrees. That should be the end of the discussion. It’s enough for him that Jaskier has cared, felt the need to reassure him rather than simply leaving him without a word. No one else has felt such obligation. 

“Don't leave me behind. I’ll try harder, I’ll… I’ll stop talking, whatever you want, is that what you want? I’ll...” 

He’s feverish, babbling nonsense again. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for this conversation after all, as he is still delicate. 

“Shut up, you're not making any sense." He puts his hand on Jaskiers forehead and it’s warm, but not as hot as before. 

"I'm not feverish," Jaskier snaps. "If you leave me I’ll follow you anyway, I’ll prove to you that I can be worth having around. I fucking _swear."_

Geralt retrieves a rag and dampens it with the waterskin, processing the words with a frown. Of course he is worth having around, he knows that Geralt values him above anyone. He needs no proof of that, it’s been proven time and time again. Does he think that’s the reason he’s being left? Where would he even get that idea? 

“Worth having? Did someone say something to you?” Everyone loves Jaskier, no one sane- besides a few cuckolded spouses- would question his worth. His eyes narrow as it clicks. The missing piece. “That idiot from the other day.” 

"Yes- No!, This has nothing to do with him. We talked about this, you and me, about why you shouldn’t leave me behind even though I’m such a terrible companion.” 

They most certainly did not talk about that. And now that he's made the connection it's so very obvious that the fool they met on the street has _everything_ to do with this, the way he talked about Jaskier. It's the fever talking, Jaskier has an overly healthy self esteem and wouldn't truly believe any of that slander, he's better than that. 

“...Like I said, I'm working on it," Jaskier finishes hastily with a dismissive wave that contrasts the bullshit pouring from his mouth. 

Working on it. Hes heard that phrase before, when- 

"Jaskier," he says carefully, because he’s got a creeping suspicion this is not simply fever induced nonsense after all. "What did you mean by 'work on it?'" 

"We talked about this, you know!" 

"Pretend I don't. Humor me." 

"I'm just working to be a better version of myself. I know you've told me you don’t like me many times over the years, but it didn't click until that day when… you know.” 

He does know. The mountain. The stony feeling in his chest grows heavier, because it might not be the idiots fault after all, it might all be Geralt's own fault, and he doesn't want to know what it is, how he's the reason Jaskier is sitting here thinking he isn't important. He knew Jaskier was angry, but he didnt know he thought any of it was true. Jaskier has never taken his insults seriously. 

“I'm getting there, I’ve been trying to not be such an inconvenience. Staying out of your things, not being so annoying, keeping out of your space. I know I haven't done a great job of it but I've only been at it a few weeks-" 

“That is not what we talked about," Geralt interrupts. He can't listen to this. He’s vaguely aware that he’s clutching the rag too hard, but it doesn't matter, because that was not the conversation they had. 

Except that it might have been. Thinking back, many things make a startling sense, in this new light. And the last piece has clicked into place, but he wishes it had not, because how could Jaskier even think that Geralt would want him to do this? 

“What?” 

"You needed time to forgive me" he says hoarsely. "You thought I meant- but I apologized," he struggles for the right words, the combination that would make the disbelief fall from Jaskiers face. He has to know Geralt didn't mean a word of it. "You're no inconvenience to me." 

It seems that only makes everything worse. "Don't say that. I don't know what you want from me," Jaskier sits back and combs his hands roughly through his hair in a painful looking grip. Geralt suppresses the urge to take them and hold them still, to soothe him where he looks ready to burst into tears or something equally alarming that Geralt is unequipped to help with. "What do you want from me," he says, voice cracking, and Geralt's heart breaks. 

He kneels beside him and reaches out to touch, to show in some way that he is present. That he wants nothing more than _Jaskier_ , than to give Jaskier a fraction of what Jaskier gives him, even if that means letting him go. Even if it means keeping him close. 

"I want you to be happy." 

“Don't make me go." 

"I won't." Of course he won't. He can't now, when he's asked with tears in his soft eyes that he's trying hard to hold in, and when his voice cracks and he's with fever. It's when Jaskier is like this that Geralt must fight his urge hardest, to avoid cradling him and answering to his every smallest whim. He cannot be left like this, irresistible and hurt. Geralt could not leave him now if he tried. 

"But you said-" 

"Because you've been miserable. I'm making you miserable, it makes sense you’d want to...” it makes far more sense than the alternative that Jaskier has built up. 

"Never," Jaskier days fiercely, and Geralt breathes again for the first time in what feels like ages. He still needs to think about this, as an increasing number of other conversations and their implications, but Jaskier is _here,_ and wants to be here, nowhere else. The ache of the past weeks fades just a bit at the revelation. 

"We're going to have to...talk," Geralt says gruffly, "about this.” He sighs, seeing Jaskiers exhaustion. He is not ready to talk, in his condition. He likely only spoke so candidly because of the fever. Hell, he may never have told him at all if it weren't for this, they could have gone on for years and Geralt would have never known, or would have mindlessly pushed him away and hurt him all over again. 

“We’ll talk more when you’re not out of your mind. Sleep." 

“And you won’t leave me?” 

“No.” 

“I can't believe that," he says, blinking sluggishly as Geralt guides him to lie down. 

“We’ll work on it,” he says firmly, tucking Jaskier back under the blankets, unable to move away for even a moment. 

And he sits, wondering how they're ever going to fix this. 

He doesn't know how to bring it up. Not aloud. He wants to apologize the same as always, with food and a fire and touches to his skin, but that won't do it this time, because it isn't skin deep. He suspects- no, he _knows_ this has gone on longer than he knew. Jaskier has been alone all this time with all of this, and didn't think he could tell him. Undervaluing himself all that time when his worth is blatant to everyone else on the Continent. He can't simply wipe that away with an apology, and can't keep holding him at arm's length the way he has in the past. He will have to work harder. 

Perhaps this fever is fate's twisted idea of a blessing. Another chance to get it right, with the both of them together. 

He has to get it right this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so embARRASSINGLY long to update bc I have been very busy and my internet might be getting shut off? so i didnt even look over it I jnust wrote it and posted it 😔 we r so close to the end!!! Hope everyone is doing well!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past sexual abuse
> 
> Also theres a time skip, this takes place several weeks after the last one

“-Only slept with me to get a chance to rob me blind! Last time I ever follow someone into an alleyway," Jaskier says through a fit of giggling. 

Geralt has hardly followed the winding story, as Jaskier got progressively drunk and sidetracked several times throughout. It's been weeks since Jaskiers illness subsided and it's good to see him ruddy with health as they buy round after round.

"Scratch that, since we did go a few more rounds after I stole my things back." Jaskiers face dims. "It was really fun. Sort of. He was sort of overly manhandle-happy, which I- I um," Jaskier falters, slurring words, "must confess I hate- and I have to pretend but I dont like it" he hiccups. 

"What?" Jaskier has adopted the nonchalant tone he takes on when hes about to say something concerning and dismiss it as nothing, because he thinks that somehow makes it less concerning. It's become a trend as of late.

"Oh you know, like- this sounds stupid but I dont like it _rough_ like that. But I can't exactly say that once we've gotten started can i?"

"You can. Just push them off you. I've done it."

"Eays for you to say, you're," he gesticulates wildly at Geralt. "...And I'm…" he flails like hes trying to summon words from the sky. "...You know? It's different, and sometimes it's people you can't just push off." 

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, staring contemplatively into his drink, and then he giggles. "The Countess used to get me drunk so I'd agree to just about anything," he says, eyes far away. "She was always on about wanting it rough, wanting to spice it up, so of course she would give me wine and wine and _wine,_ and I would find myself in the bed easy as that, the feisty girl. My performance was awful, just as I warned her it would be, and of course she did it again, but she had me smoke something too- no use, it was to the same result.” He laughs rauciously, a self depricating lilt to it under the slurred ramble.

Geralt watches as Jaskier crumbles apart in laughter.

"I blamed the wine for this, but between us, I just couldn't get it up," he chokes out through manic laughter that sounds closer to sobs. And he sneaks a knowing look at Geralt. Is he supposed to be laughing too? Geralts mouth hardens into a line, any trace of drunken cheeriness vanished.

It's not very funny. It's not funny at all.

"Oh, don't be sour, it's just a silly tale,” Jaskier reaches out to pinch Geralts cheeks into a smile.

"She sounds like." Jaskier does not take well to words like 'abuse' to describe his own past. Tact, he must remember to use tact. "A piece of work."

Jaskiers smile falters. "Come on, dont tell me Yennefer never did anything like that.”

Yennefer most certainly had never done that. Even when she puts people under sex spells, they agree to it beforehand. She loves to feel wanted, and takes great pains to ensure the want is genuine. He can understand that. What he cant wrap his head around is the ever-growing number of people willing to take advantage of Jaskiers kind nature. Its unbelievable. 

He takes another drink to avoid answering for another moment, because he doesnt want to think about the implications of this conversation, that Jaskier believes this is commonplace- fuck, had he allowed this from all his partners? 

He swallows the ale. Bitter.

“People shouldnt make you do things you dont want.”

“She was my _lover,_ of course she could-”

“All the more reason.” Geralt knows this. As little as he understands people and their behavior, as little as he is integrated into society, this he knows is a cardinal rule. 

Yennefer spoke often and firmly of how she hated being controlled. He himself has fought many creatures whose control comes from manipulation, which has given him a distinct distaste for it, especially on one as susceptible as Jaskier. And Geralt is starting to understand how he came to be this way.

Understanding doesn't make him hate it any less.

“You dont know anything about her, shes perfectly lovely. You dont know what youre talking about," Jaskier snaps.

“She wears her hair in fancy styles, and sleeps on satin sheets,” Geralt mocks, mimicking one of Jaskiers earlier, extensive rambles about her. He shouldnt be saying this. “And she only blows men when she wants something and she likes sonnets about her, and she likes it rough. You dont like _any of those things_ ,” he should definitely stop talking now, because the hurt look on Jaskiers face is turning to a flushed anger as Geralt essentially confesses that he’s heard him fuck through the walls, that he has noticed the way he scoffs at Valdo Marx and his soppy sonnets and listened as he prattled through his likes and dislikes for hours on end. He knows Jaskier better than anyone, and mortifying as it is, he must let Jaskier know that he _knows_ him, if he is to get through to him. "And you dont like to smoke because it hurts your throat. What else did she make you-”

“Nothing I didnt agree to!”

“You’d agree to choke to death if someone asked you nicely,” he should shut the fuck up now. He should really stop talking. Jaskiers jaw works angrily, gaping like a fish snatched from the water. Geralt can't stop talking. “Because that manipulative-”

“Dont call her that!”

“-That fucking bitch didn't let you say no to-”

Jaskier makes to slap a hand over Geralts mouth, and Geralt catches his wrist, holding it firmly and reaching with his other arm to hold him in place.

“I know how to say no,” he hisses.

“Say it then. Tell me to let you go”

Jaskier doesnt move, even as he struggles in Geralts grip, and that solidifies it. 

He doesnt move. 

“Tell me. To let go." 

Selfishly, Geralt doesnt want him to say it. He wants to loosen his grip just slightly, to give him the chance to pull away. He wants Jaskier to instead move a fraction closer, so their palms touch, deliberate. 

But this is not about Geralt and his wants. He needs Jaskier to speak, to prove that he can speak, or to prove that he can't. Anything to end this charade where Jaskier pretends he is fine, has ever been.

They sit at an impasse, a storm gathering at the window as Geralt watches Jaskier flickering eyes. The minutes drag on and Jaskier is tense, a spring without permission to bounce. Jaskier speaks.

"I want, er," he says. He clears his throat and starts again, wrist going limp. "Come on, Geralt." 

They lock eyes, and they have their answers.  
Geralt lets go, and Jaskier stands, swearing, to stomp out the door. Geralt stays, holding his head in his hands. The world spins from its axis, and he pushes aside his ale.

Fuck.

When he sobers up later in the inn room, he almost wishes he had a hangover. Anything to distract from the memory of how he had behaved. 

Unbelievable. Trying to be delicate about it, to put Jaskier at ease and reassure him, all down the drain because he behaved like the brute everyone thinks he is. Grabbing his wrist like that. He’s as bad as everyone else that’s hurt Jaskier. He _knew_ Jaskier wouldn’t tell him to let go, that was the _point,_ that Jaskier needed to understand. But it shouldn't have been Geralt to do it, he shouldn't have done it that way.

He’s beginning to think Jaskier will sleep elsewhere tonight only to be away from him, when Jaskier bursts through the door, soaking wet. Neither of them speak and Jaskier gets into the bed, probably soaking it. Geralt struggles for words.

"I shouldn't have pushed." he says at the same time as Jaskier blurts “You were right earlier." 

He stops, because Jaskier should speak, because he neds to know whats going through his head right now and how much of this he can salvage.

"I- I’ve been lying to myself for a very long time. I think the Countess hurt me and as much as part of me thinks I should, I don't forgive anyone for it at all, because they knew I was young and didn't know what love was supposed to be like.” Geralt wishes he knew. Wishes he could be the one to show him. “She was so kind but- This sounds so ungrateful. Please stop me if you don't want to hear-”

“No, I do,” Geralt trips over himself to sit on the bed, because he hadn't expected this, had expected more coldness from Jaskier, a reversion to trying to please him, or perhaps defensive anger. This is beyond what he could have hoped for, and he will be damned if he lets Jaskier think its anything less than completely acceptable.

“I feel like such a fool. I let her do whatever she wanted," he runs a hand over his face.

"She manipulated you," he says.

"I suppose so," he admits, and Geralt is obscenely proud. "I think something is wrong with me. I can't even begin to believe you care about me even when I know you’re a good man and you wouldn't lie to me to save my feelings, I can't believe it because I just- I just can't. This whole thing isn't because of you, please understand, I know it started at the mountain but that's hardly where it begins and it's my fault- I mean it isn't- I mean."

"I know." Jaskier is as visceral and open as a beasts slit belly, bleeding his heart out. Scattered, nonsensical. But he knows, anyway, what he means beneath it.  
"And you're helping, you're being so fucking calm about this and… I never knew how helpless I felt until I didnt feel that way anymore and that's because of you, you're always saying you like me how I am, and I know it's stupid but that's been a help."

He shakes his head, because it isnt his doing at all. He feels like hes stumbling blind through this situation. It feels like he only makes things worse, honestly. And Jaskier is his own man, he reminds him often, he’s not Geralts plaything. Geralt wants to be different from them; he doesnt want to control Jaskier, he wants him to be free, to be the way he is. This is Jaskier, fixing himself. Acknowledging his own pains.

"I don't control you. It's not because of me, you did it yourself."

And Jaskier gives him a look and his eyes are so full that Geralt wants to reach out, brush his thumbs over his brows to smooth them, over his eyelids to fix the damp lashes that cling to each other from the rain. He won't, not unless Jaskier asks, and he will not ask. 

But he does tell stories, with a lightness in his voice that dwindles as he tells and tells as if he can’t stop, and Geralt knows he must have buried these deep down, because he’s never heard more than glimpses of this rotting pain in all their years together. It’s a multitude of old wounds pulled open and made fresh, and there’s so _much_ he hadn’t known, so many parts of Jaskier that hadn’t made sense in all their years together until now. It’s overwhelming. He doesnt dare stop Jaskier, even as fury and protectiveness take him over in equal turns, because this may be the only time he musters the telling, that Geralt has a chance to know the side of him that is scraped so raw.

And when he’s done, or done for now, drained from the telling, Geralt feels he must say something in return. Something so that Jaskier isnt ashamed tomorrow at baring himself openly when Geralt has given nothing. 

“You’re clingy when you sleep,” he says. Shit. That came out wrong.“I can’t sleep without it," he follows quickly when Jaskier begins to pull away. "I was afraid, when you started sleeping alone.”

"What do you have to be scared of, the dark? You're a monster hunter for a living if I recall."

"I thought you were going to leave me. You braided someone else's hair." It sounds stupid when he says it aloud, but it's important that he say it. Jaskier should know how he fears to lose him, if he knows the scraped raw parts of Jaskier. "You didn't want to accompany me hunting. I came back and all your things were gone," his voice cracks.

He sounds like a jealous asshole. But it’s only the truth. And Jaskier has out his arms, a question, a long awaited permission, and Geralt turns to embrace him. Close, and warm and soft and everything he had wished to have and now he is _allowed_ to touch, _asked_ to touch.

“I’m sorry I made you think that. I wouldn't leave you.”  
“Don't apologize,” he says tersely. “I don't want to hear you apologize to me.”

“You deserve apologies.” 

“Not from you. You're fine," his neck tingles where Jaskiers breath falls. Everything he touches is finery.

"Would it be improper-” Jaskier stutters, hesitant. “Do you mind if I cry?" He whispers into Geralts neck. He doesn't mind. Of course he doesn't. He doesnt think he could ever mind something Jaskier chooses to share with him. 

He shakes his head and Jaskier relaxes into him. Geralt rubs clumsy circles into Jaskiers shoulders as he sobs like a dam breaking, great shaking sobs so strong they could break him. 

“I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” He couldn't stand it now, not when Jaskier is looking at him with red rimmed, puffy eyes and his lips are quivering. The bed is wet with rain.

“You can cry on me too if you want,” Jaskier sniffles.

“Maybe another night.” This is all he can handle for this one. Someday his tongue may permit him to do his own telling- not tonight, nor soon, but perhaps one day, because he has seen Jaskier tonight scraped raw and pouring tears, and Jaskier is here in his arms and bed, offering the same in return, like it could be that easy.

It's never been easy. But he’s never met anyone who he could do this with, lie in bed and not beat his head on the wall for hours after. Jaskier is different, and he is everything, and it is easy to love and be loved by him. He can let his own wounds air, to hurt out loud, because one day it might not hurt anymore. One day is not never. One day.

Jaskier sighs in his sleep and snuggles closer, wedging an icy foot under Geralt's leg. 

One day seems closer than it ever has.


	8. Geralts Friendship Adventure

Geralt sits on the bed and watches Jaskier getting ready to perform. 

There is a ball being thrown tonight, and Valdo Marx will be in attendance. So of course Jaskier is also invited. Privately, Geralt thinks the nobles must invite them both to the same events on purpose- entertainment of its own, seeing the two physically catfight until they must be forcibly removed from venues.

Or perhaps they were both called upon because they are both well known, and this is, according to Jaskier, the most talked-about event of the year. Many nobles will be in attendance, Lords and and Dukes and Duchesses of all corners of the Continent.

And Jaskiers parents.

Jaskier dresses nervously, flitting about the room and changing his mind about what to wear at least six times as he tries to convince Geralt _not_ to accompany him this time. As if Geralt would leave him to be eaten alive in such a way. He will hate going, but Jaskier will hate going even more, because Jaskier feels he must perform the impossible task of pleasing these despicable people.

He doesn't really understand it. Jaskier is well loved by his many adoring fans, yet craves the praise of the only people on the Continent who won't give it. It hurts to watch, but all he can do is make sure he is not among those who disregard Jaskiers worth.

Jaskier runs a hand through his brown locks, stress emanating from him in waves. Half dressed, his pale back is visible, dotted with freckles. Nervous sweat drips from the base of his neck.

Geralt's hands twitch.

The distinction between wanting and having is sometimes a difficult one. Geralt has never before had to know the difference between these two equally pointless pursuits, and these days he isn't sure where to draw the line.

He reaches out to place a hand on Jaskiers shoulder, steadying him as he tries on yet another set of underclothes. (He has permission.)

He chances a glance at Jaskiers mouth, and looks away just as quickly. (He does not have permission.)

Jaskier stills at the touch and fixes him with a sharp smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You don't have to do that," he says. "I know you're not comfortable with physical affection."

"Hm." He doesn't move his hand. It feels good, it always has to touch. He is uncomfortable with it only because it feels good and his duty does not allow for him to have too many good things at once.

But he has permission.

"And you shouldn't feel obligated to do that tonight," Jaskier continues. "They may be rude to you, Geralt, and say some very vicious things, especially if you're with me," he stammers as he tugs on his stockings, straightening them obsessively. "So you may want to stay at a distance for your own sake, since you insist on accompanying me. They'll be absolutely _rude_ to you anyway, especially my father, don't want to make it worse. "

"We can shit in their potted plants, then." He does not care about rudeness. Could not possibly give a shit about these peoples opinions. His hand is still warm from where he touched Jaskiers skin.

Jaskier laughs, high and manic.

"Do you mind?" He indicates his back, where his corset hangs loose. Geralt pulls at the ties to tighten it. Jaskier always crams himself into the thing on the insistence that it is 'stylish.' To Geralt it only looks uncomfortable, and a bit unnatural. Jaskiers ribs rise and fall shallowly, like small and frightened animals would. His face is sickly pale, all wrong.

"Too tight?" he asks, thumbing at the fabric. Jaskiers face is bloodless and his hands quiver slightly.

"No, it's fine, I-" Jaskier visibly catches himself and shakes his head as if snapping out of a dream. " _Yes._ It's too tight. Way too tight."

Jaskier stands stock still for a moment as Geralt undoes the ties.

"Fuck it, fuck this." Jaskier says, whirling around, and suddenly he is properly Jaskier again, red-faced and self assured and alive. "Why dont we skip this _stupid_ thing and play fetch with Roach for a few hours? I won't be missed."

Playing fetch with Roach is a game which consists of two events: throwing a stick-like object across a field, and Roach running about. 

These events do not correspond with one another, as Roach is entirely unaware of the concept of fetching. Despite Geralt's best efforts and Roach's unparalleled intelligence, she simply hasn't taken to it. 

Still, a game of fetch with a horse seems less futile than attending the ball.

Geralt nods too enthusiastically, and wastes no time tearing the corset in two in his haste to remove the offending clothing. Jaskier only laughs, deep and rich as his ribs heave full breaths. His hair is a disaster from how he's been running his hands through it.

 _Thank fuck for this_ , Geralt thinks, not even sure what he means.

They play fetch for a while and they laze in a field, the sun ringing the sky pink. Roach has her fun and Jaskier teaches Geralt to make instruments from grass. Geralt's instrument is not especially successful, but it's nice to do something besides kill and eat and sleep. Something pointless to waste the evening.

They do this more often these days, these pointless events now as familiar as the rest of his routine and far more enjoyable, as the good company of two friends and the pleasantness of doing nothing ease him into a relaxed state. This is far better than a ball. He cant fucking stand rich people.

He reaches out to touch Jaskiers side, because he is allowed to touch, expected to. 

Jaskier barks a surprised noise and smacks playfully at his hand. _Ticklish._ Geralt digs a hand into his ribs and Jaskier is laughing in earnest, squirming and writhing, letting Geralt touch him this way with his killing hands. 

_Not just killing. Hands that brush Roach,_ Jaskier would remind him if he voiced this. _That can make a grass flute, now, and can ruffle Jaskiers hair, and can tickle his side._

"I give," Jaskier gasps. 

"Baby," he chides, the words undermined as the two of them grin, giddy as children, both covered in mud and grass. Roach frolics nearby.

This is how he spends his evenings. Where before he would silently sharpen his blades for hours, or go off alone to tear apart a rabbit to take the edge off his tension, now he is rarely alone. It's not part of the routine anymore, as he is constantly dragged out of solitude topshop, or to laze about, or be bathed.

Perhaps there is a point somewhere in this exercise, he thinks as he sneaks glances at Jaskier. There has to be a point there somewhere.

They visit a tavern after that. Jaskier has had a harrowing day of narrowly avoiding seeing his family and friends, so it's warranted.

Geralt hadn't intended to get plastered, but as it stands he does not feel bad at all, lying across Jaskiers lap in the middle of the tavern.

"Come here," he grunts, beckoning Jaskier close. Jaskier leans in curiously.

"Pretty eyes," he breathes. His breaths are too loud. Jaskier looks stunning in the moonlight. He looks into his eyes earnestly, with a message Jaskier absolutely must hear. "You smile good."

"You're practically waxing poetic," he grins into his drink.

"Im serious. Jaskier. I'm serious." He lays a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier has to believe him. "I'm _serious_."

"Alright, you great sweet thing, I hear you," Jaskier says, a flustered pink on his cheeks.

Great sweet thing. Is that meant to be Geralt? That's new. Or maybe not. Jaskier always says nice things. He is so nice.

He closes his eyes, very tired. They probably should sleep this off. He leans back, slumping against Jaskiers soft, soft shoulder, baring his throat. He turns to breathe against Jaskiers neck, eliciting a shiver. Warm. He wants to sleep. "We should go to bed."

"No," Jaskier says harshly, and then soothes it over, petting through Geralt's hair. "I won't bed you in this state, you're pissed."

"To sleep." Now that he's thinking of it, going to bed in the other sense is appealing as well.

"Oh." He flushes again. "Of course. Lets- let's go, then." 

He turns it over in his mind. Not in this state, he thinks. That means- in another state, maybe. "You would?"

"As I said, not when you're drunk."

Jaskiers eyes shine, intense with sincerity, and Geralt's chest clenched as he understands. Jaskier thinks this is like- It wouldn't be like that, though, Jaskier is not like her. He wouldn't be asking something Geralt did not want to give; the things he wants now are the things he wants all the time, only bigger somehow. Urgent in a way he can usually suppress beneath his duty as a Witcher- without wants and feelings. But looking into soft eyes now, he feels. And he _wants_.

"Soft," he mumbles reverently, nuzzling at Jaskiers arm. He remembers earlier. "You were wrong."

"Oh? About what?" Jaskier says patiently.

"I like your physical affections," he slurs. "Only if you like it though," he trails off, distracted by a fly.

Jaskier hoists him up and they make their way to the room, Jaskier staggering under his weight as they go upstairs. 

They tumble unceremoniously onto the bed, Geralt's weight creaking on the flimsy frame, and they lie still. Geralt revels in the noise of breathing. The woodgrain in the ceiling seems to swirl, and he closes his eyes, dizzy.

He is not alone at all, he has two entire friends, Jaskier and Roach, the best friends the world has to offer. They're so talented. Roach can almost fetch and Jaskier can sing songs.

"Sing a song," he says.

"I am never letting you live this one down, my friend," Jaskier whispers, but it's a lie, he can tell. And he does start singing. A lullaby that only half rhymes, voice rough and lilting. All his music should sound like this. The bed is scratchy. Geralt presses his nose into Jaskiers stomach to breathe it in, and he falls asleep, not alone at all.

  


Every hunt he survives is one closer to the hunt he doesn't. 

This time, he wasn't fast enough to avoid the teeth.

He doesn't know anything except that it hurts. It's deep. There's a lot of blood, and it must be going fast because the pain is starting to go too, leaving a cold emptiness, like he's draining away. He can't move, even to tilt his head down and assess the damage, and that tells him all he needs to know. 

No one is coming for him, thank fuck. Jaskier is probably playing for a little crowd in a warm tavern right now, and by the time he comes looking, the danger will be long over and Geralt's body will be cold. 

He's going to be upset. That's what he gets, choosing to bond himself to someone like Geralt, but at least he won't have to see it happen. At least Yennefer can move on and his Child Surprise will be free to live their own life, and Jaskier and Roach will have each other.

It doesn't hurt at all anymore, he's only numb all over. He isn't in his body. This is all more peaceful than it has any right to be. He closes his eyes and waits for death.

An eternity later he is jostled by something in the dark, and a searing pain shoots through him. He is in hell, then.

"Of course," he mumbles, but it is slurred. Why is he so tired?

"Hush, dont try to speak," a man says faintly, as if from another room. "I've got you. I called help."

"This had better be serious, bard, I- oh," another voice, a woman. Something is touching him and he cries out. Two fingers press into his forehead and he sleeps again, plagued by nightmares.

Geralt wakes in a suspiciously comfortable bed. He doesn't pay for inns with beds like this, with luxuries like- _pillows._

He tries to bolt upright, but finds that he is held in place. He has been captured. He scans his surroundings. An airy room, with a small table covered in strange vials, and a bed where he is soundly tucked under a dark wool blanket. Plants line the windows and sigils are carved over the doorway. This is someone's home.

A snore sounds from beside him and he turns his head to see a familiar mop of brown hair. Craning his neck, Geralt peers down, and there is Jaskier, slumped against the bedside, asleep on the floor. 

"You're up," says a voice from the doorway. 

Yennefer leans against the frame, arms crossed. This must be her home now. He can't get up to look at her.

"Tied to the bed," he says dumbly. She raises a brow.

"You thrashed in your sleep; it was aggravating your injuries and they were already-" 

"I'm sure I've had worse," he says. This is not his first brush with death, nor will it be his last. His body is resilient, he might have survived even without her assistance.

Yennefer sighs, drumming her fingers on the wall. She crosses the room in sweeping steps to stand over him, her looming figure blocking out light from the window to glare down at him. He should be afraid, but he only feels safe, all his tension draining as she towers like a fortress above the bed. 

"You were _dead,_ for a moment." She deadpans, an unreadable expression on her face. "Thought we lost you."

He had thought the same about her, many times before. 

Undoing the ties with a wave, she brushes his hair out of his face and places a hand over his, and he doesn't understand. This must be her home, but he is in it. Something has changed while he slept.

She looks at him, fondness playing over her features, and it clicks, what is different between them. The pull is gone.

She sits gripping his hand with unnecessary force. He's not certain she realizes she is doing it.

He was dead, she had said. For a moment. Dread and relief mingle as the implication hits. His lifetime ended, and the wish with it, and they are no longer bound. There is nothing keeping him here, nothing making her keep him. 

"Do you still…?" 

"I don't know. But I've missed you," she chokes on the words, and he nods, pretending not to notice. He does not let go of her hand.

And just like that, he has three friends.

  


There is a girl. She is blonde as a lioness, and he is drawn toward her to hold her close. 

He knows who this is. 

Jaskier gapes. "You're-"

"Call me Ciri," she says. She's still clinging, and he's clinging, and he should be wrongfooted about the whole thing but everything has clicked into place all at once. 

"Ciri. It's good to finally meet you." 

Geralt has four friends. 

  


Geralts scars do not always heal entirely. There are days they ache beneath his skin as if they never healed at all. On the days it is especially bad, he rests, pain making him weary, and a liability if he were to continue. He is better at resting than he used to be. Today he and Yennefer had spent the morning talking about possible weapons for Ciri, and she had left to walk to town with her, leaving only Geralt and Jaskier in camp, to spend the afternoon with his pains. It isn't so bad. 

In the early evening, Jaskier stands, picking up his bag. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Town. I forgot to tell Yen to get lute oil while she's out, and it's only a half hour walk. And there's a festival, apparently!" 

Geralt nods. He doesn't want to be alone. Who is he to tell Jaskier what he can and can't do? Jaskier deserves to go and have fun without Geralt holding him here to play nursemaid. 

"Can you-" his foot is fully down his throat. "Bring me back a trinket," he finishes weakly. 

Jaskier gives him a calculating look. 

"Youre not as inscrutable as you think, you know." He sits back down. "What's wrong? Should I stay?" 

"Go have fun." Any other day he would mean it. He isn't dying, it's only a bit of pain and it would be excessive for Jaskier to stay when he's been here all day. He can be alone. "I'm not trying to guilt you into-" 

"I know," he says. "You've been very good about my boundaries, actually, but that doesnt mean you cant ask when you need something. So ask." 

"Go to town tomorrow instead," he says. Tomorrow Yennefer and Ciri will be here, or his pain will be gone and they can all go. 

"There, was that so difficult?" Jaskier rewards him with a smile, settling in again. "Anything else I can help with?" Geralt hesitates, and Jaskier squints at him suspiciously. " _Geralt._ " 

"My thigh." It's a series of older scars, courtesy of a knife fight, littering his outer thigh. They hurt, but he can reach it himself. "I can reach it myself." 

"So can I, but the added bonus is that I have magical hands," Jaskier says, waving his fingers. "Not literally, but Yennefer isn't here to correct me, is she." He bats Geralt's hands aside and sets to work kneading the muscle. 

They are silent as he massages the area, and when he finishes he asks quietly if he can continue with the calf, and then does the same the other leg, and the next thing Geralt knows, Jaskier is soothing the tension in his neck, talking inanely as he presses places Geralt didn't even realize were hurting. When he finishes, he comes to sit in front of Geralt again, nearly in his lap as he looks seriously into his eyes. 

"Do you need anything else?" 

"No," he says. Jaskier has done more than enough for him tonight. But the answer doesn't seem to satisfy him. 

"You have to tell me these things. Out loud, so I know we understand each other. Like- like this- How is your pain right now?" 

"Better than earlier." 

"Good. If you need any more help, you should ask, I mean it." He rests a hand on Geralt's leg, and slowly brings it to rest on his thigh. "I'll say yes," says Jaskier meaningfully, gaze flickering to his lips. 

He knows Jaskier means it. Jaskier kissed him first, and they've kissed a little since then, he knows Jaskier wants him. It does nothing to quell the curdling uncertainty in his stomach, of what it would risk of he crossed the wrong line or fucked it up with the immensity of his want. A desire so heavy it has created its own gravity, capable of fucking up everything around him. He doesn't know the first thing about how to want, how to wield desire. 

But he cant allow Jaskier to think he doesnt want him. And hes made it clear he is staying, an idea which has been terrifying since they met and will likely never stop being so. 

Jaskier is still looking at him, a question in his eyes. 

This is the clearest yes he could give, Geralt just has to take it, to have what he wants. He has permission. 

"What do you _want,_ Geralt?" 

To be happy. Yennefer. Jaskier. To not be alone. 

He seeks permission again with his eyes and Jaskier gives it with his hands, covering Geralts and moving them across expanses of skin to touch. He wants to. 

Geralt kneels between his thighs and takes him in his mouth, swallowing gently and closing his eyes at the sensation of velvet skin on his tongue. 

Jaskier permits him again with his fingertips carding through Geralt's hair, and with his voice as he moans sweet nothings, and again with his thighs as they tense around Geralt's head. 

Passionately, he wants to. Methodically, slowly, he takes. 

When Jaskier comes it is with a wordless, musical noise, and Geralt finds himself pulled into a kiss. He lays still, inhaling the sweat scent from Jaskiers chest, savoring it. 

"I can take care of you too," Jaskier says. 

"You already do." 

"Such a romantic," he sighs without a hint of irony. "I meant I'll get you off if you roll over." 

"Later." Hes busy. His face is buried in Jaskiers chest and hes perfectly comfortable here. 

There is still something to say. Nothing good can last. 

"Jaskier." 

"Yes?" He mumbles, and Geralt hates to kill his mood but they've promised to be candid, and he does not want Jaskier to be uncertain. 

"You know I- there's Yennefer too," he says, less than half as smoothly as he wanted it to sound. It must be said before it festers, like tearing a bandage from a clotted wound. Jaskier knows now that he loves him, he must know just how much, whether they sleep together or not. But if sleeping together while Geralt loves both of them will dig at Jaskiers insecurities, then it's best that they cut it at the quick and stop now before it gets too far. It's what's best, he tells himself. His hands clench and unclench of their own accord. 

Jaskier doesn't falter in his petting, only heaves a deep sigh. 

"I've always known that, sweetheart." 

"Are you angry?" His voice is smaller than he had hoped. 

"No," he yawns. He sounds half asleep, as content as he was before the conversation began. "As long as we both love you well, it's okay." 

"Hm," Geralt huffs. Maybe it is. 

"I want you to have all the love you can get," Jaskier says seriously. 

And then he sleeps, hand still entangled in Geralt's hair. Geralt stays awake for some time thinking of how much more love he could possibly get. 

Yennefer and Ciri return and lay out their own bedrolls. Jaskiers breathing is slow and deep. Ciri mumbles in her sleep, meaning she is likely having a nightmare and they will all need to move their bedrolls against hers to chase away bad dreams. Yennefer snores at an incredible volume, though she will deny it in the morning. 

He isn't sure his heart can get any fuller. 

  


Kaer Morhen, built of stone, is not designed to be comfortable. It is a fortress, a place of training and strict discipline, desolate as the Witchers themselves. Their dwindling number is not enough to warm the dead walls in winter. 

The Wolves do make fires to stave the biting cold. But the ancient building could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called 'cozy.' 

That does not stop Jaskier and Ciri from trying. 

"Come and drink the cider, Ciri made it!" Jaskier calls from the door, where he stands wearing a fur coat and mittens despite having stayed inside all day. 

Geralt shoots him a look but he only pouts and continues. "You've been training out here for hours. Ciri will be devastated if you don't come try it," he says dramatically. 

He can hear Ciri laughing in the other room. Devastated, clearly. 

Snow falls heavy on the ground. Perhaps he could use a break. He lays the blade down with the others and lets himself be shuffled through the door and sat beside the hearth on a fur blanket. Jaskier sets a hot cup of something beside him. 

Yennefer sits on the other end of the rug, and Eskel and Lambert on creaky seats, both holding little cups of their own. Jaskier and Ciri must have forced them to gather here as well. 

Jaskier enters, pushing a disgruntled Vesemir along in front of him as Ciri shoves a mug into his hand. Vesemir glances around the room. 

"Cozy," he grunts. 

Today Geralt has seven friends. 

Yennefer sidles up to him. "Its Yuletide," she says offhandedly, passing him a parcel. 

It crinkles as he opens it. In the small box are several hair ties and combs. He picks one up and it sparks with the airy feeling of magic. 

"They're enchanted, so your hair should stop flying everywhere in battle when you have it up in these." 

"Why go to the trouble?" The Wolves have never exchanged gifts at Kaer Morhen, nor has Yennefer ever been one to celebrate holidays. Not with presents. 

She levels him with a stare as if he is stupid. Maybe he is. "Because I love you." 

"I love you too." It is easy to say. He turns to Jaskier. "I love you," he says again, because he likes how it feels in his mouth. Jaskier beams, and Yennefer fails to bite back a smile. 

They've never done anything like this before. Kaer Morhen is warm. Perhaps things are just different now. 

Eskel groans at the display. "Since we're doing gifts now, just know you're all getting nothing' from me." 

"I want a sword," says Ciri. Eskel rolls his eyes, but Geralt knows he is absolutely going to find her a sword before the next time their paths cross.

It is a cozy winter. They will leave in the spring. Each year he dreads the leaving, but not this year- this year they will leave and travel the roads, and stop along the way at the coast, and the bardic festival, and to visit Yennefer's witch acquaintances. 

The road winds long, but it is no longer empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happy ever after The End!!
> 
> (Kind of wanted to name this chapter "geralts friendship adventure" and might still do so)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the beta of this story, star_flaming!
> 
> Also I am on tumblr now (fox-muldest) so come say hi over there :)


End file.
